


Sign Your Name (Across My Heart)

by dr_girlfriend



Category: Hawkeye (Comics), Marvel (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: American Sign Language, Deaf Character, Deaf Clint Barton, Fraction/Aja!Clint Barton, M/M, Misunderstandings, Modern AU, No Superheroes AU, No Superpowers AU, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Sign Language, War Veteran!Bucky Barnes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-14
Updated: 2019-10-14
Packaged: 2020-12-16 05:17:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,998
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21030869
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dr_girlfriend/pseuds/dr_girlfriend
Summary: Bucky doesn’t even realize he’s stopped walking until Steve bumps into him from behind, almost falling over as his slight frame bounces off of Bucky’s bulky one.“Buck?  You okay?”“Yeah,” Bucky says absently, unable to look away for a moment even as he reaches out and steadies Steve with a hand on his slim shoulder.The man is fuck-off tall, with bright blue eyes.  He’s wearing a purple t-shirt with a target on it that hugs his broad shoulders and lean waist.  Dark jeans, gone a little frayed at the seams, stretch down and down and down his endless legs.“Who’s that?” he asks, as Steve shakes off his grip and comes around to take a look.“Who?  Him?”  Steve lifts his hand to point and Bucky slaps it out of the air.“Jesus, Steve, don’t be so obvious.  Yeah, him.  Purple shirt,” Bucky says.Biceps that I want to bite.  Abs to die for.  Scruff that I’d like to feel between my thighs,he doesn’t say.“Barton.  One ‘a the archery guys.”“He’s deaf?” Bucky asks, and maybe it’s rude to ask Steve, but he wants to know more about this guy.  He wants to know ahelluvalot more about this guy.





	Sign Your Name (Across My Heart)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Kangofu_CB](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kangofu_CB/gifts).

> This fic is for kangofu-cb. She asked for fluff, and prompted with Barista!Bucky learning ASL for his customer Deaf!Clint. I thought I had read the prompt filled before, but told her I would do a spin on Bucky learning ASL for Clint, and so here it is.
> 
> There's some bad behavior in this fic -- stupid assumptions, eavesdropping, borderline stalking, getting somewhat obsessed with someone you've never met. It's easier if you just roll with it. ;-)
> 
> Many thanks to Tumblr user madhatter for the ASL beta! If anyone more fluent in ASL than us feels like I've gotten anything wrong, feel free to let me know. Thanks as well to Tumblr user rhysiana for the archery/rifle range advice...I realize the facility I describe is not terribly logical and unlikely to exist in Manhattan, but I'm calling creative license on that one too. :-)

Bucky’s on his way to the rifle bay to set up for his class when something snags his attention — unusual motion just at the edge of his peripheral vision.

He turns his head to better see it, his eyes automatically tracking the smooth, quick gestures. The man is animated, almost exuberant — his muscular arms moving in wide sweeps, his long fingers fluttering rapidly. His face is equally expressive — his sandy brows jumping and furrowing, mobile expressions wrinkling the band-aid plastered across the bridge of his freckled nose.

Bucky doesn’t even realize he’s stopped walking until Steve bumps into him from behind, almost falling over as his slight frame bounces off of Bucky’s solid one. 

“Buck? You okay?”

“Yeah,” Bucky says absently, unable to look away for a moment even as he reaches out and steadies Steve with a hand on his slim shoulder. 

The man is fuck-off tall, with bright blue eyes. He’s wearing a purple t-shirt with a target on it that hugs his broad shoulders and lean waist. Dark jeans, gone a little frayed at the seams, stretch over slim hips and down and down and down his endless legs.

“Who’s that?” he asks, as Steve shakes off his grip and comes around to take a look.

“Who? Him?” Steve lifts his hand to point and Bucky slaps it out of the air.

“Jesus, Steve, don’t be so obvious. Yeah, him. Purple shirt,” Bucky says. _ Biceps that I want to bite. Abs to die for. Scruff that I’d like to feel between my thighs_, he doesn’t say.

“Barton. One ‘a the archery guys. Think his first name is Cliff or somethin’ like that? Seems nice enough. Usually works afternoons. Mornings don’t seem to agree with him.”

That explains why Bucky hasn’t seen him before. Bucky prefers the early morning shifts, riding the subways before most people are up so he can get home before rush hour starts. He’s a million times better now than when he was first discharged, but riding the A train when it’s crowded with people is enough for anyone’s nerves, let alone ones already frayed a little by PTSD like his are.

“He’s deaf?” Bucky asks, and maybe it’s rude to ask Steve, but he wants to know more about this guy. He wants to know a _ helluva _ lot more about this guy.

“Well, I’ve seen him signing to his classes, but usually —” Steve’s eyes catch on the big clock at the end of the bay. “Shit! Gotta go, and you do too. Our classes start in five.”

Steve doesn’t wait for Bucky, just raises a hand in farewell and charges off to the rooms at the back where his self-defense classes are held. Bucky lets himself look for a moment longer. 

The man — _ Barton _ — is laughing at something, his head thrown back and his shoulders shaking. He gives his companion — a lanky, dark-skinned teenager with close-cropped hair and a shy smile — a playful shove. Then he turns, his gaze skimming the room.

Bucky kicks himself into motion before he gets caught staring. He makes his way to the rifle bay, swiftly unpacking and setting up his own weapon of choice, mind still a little distant as his students filter in.

* * *

Bucky doesn’t want to admit it, but he keeps an eye out for Barton all week. There’s a strange mixture of excitement and anticipation in the pit of his stomach. It’s something he hasn’t felt for a long time, and he just wants to savor it a little. He’s almost not disappointed when he doesn’t get another glimpse of Barton. It allows him to keep hold of this feeling for a little longer, before he potentially talks to the guy and finds out he’s straight, or uninterested, or — god forbid — a _ Trump-supporter_.

Still, he shows up almost an hour early the next Thursday, a week to the day from when he first saw the guy. The facility’s not technically open yet, but sure enough, there Barton is, just him and the teen alone in the echoing archery bay. Barton must have made special arrangements for the kid, squeezing in a lesson before school once a week.

The kid is good, too — Bucky doesn’t know much about archery, but he can see the intense concentration on his face, all his shy mannerisms melting away into calm focus as he shoots. Clint gives him a few tips from time to time, touching his shoulder gently to capture the kid’s attention and then signing his comments. Every once in awhile the kid hands Clint the bow to hold while he signs back, but usually he just nods, adjusting his stance or changing his grip minutely and sending the next arrow ever-closer to the bullseye.

Near the end of the hour, just as people are starting to filter in again for the first classes and stall times of the morning, the kid hits three perfect shots in a row and Clint whoops in excitement, high-fiving him. The kid hands his bow to Clint and responds with a flurry of signs. Clint shakes his head a little sheepishly, but then nods.

The kid steps aside. Clint grabs three arrows, threading them between his knuckles. He takes the kid’s place at the center of the stall. He takes up his stance but doesn’t lift the bow or line up the shot. Instead he closes his eyes, tilting his head up so he’s facing the ceiling.

“What the _ fuck_,” Bucky breathes, garnering a stern look from a woman in yoga pants who is passing by.

Swiftly, Clint raises the bow and looses the arrows. Faster than Bucky can follow with his eyes, they thunk home, arrow points tightly clustered dead center in the target.

“Jesus _ fuck_,” Bucky says reverently. His body flushes hot at the utter fucking marksmanship on display.

“His name is Clint,” a voice says at Bucky’s side, making him jump.

“Jesus Christ, Stevie, where’d you come from?”

“On my way to class, which is where you should be headed,” Steve says acerbically. His voice softens. “But, seriously — you should ask him out. I asked Darcy, and she said —”

“You asked _ Darcy?_” God in heaven, their receptionist Darcy was a total sweetheart, but also the biggest gossip in the joint.

Bucky can feel his cheeks turning hot. Shit, he hates how easily he blushes. Between Steve and Darcy half the facility probably knows about his crush already.

“Yeah, and —”

“Just — just, keep out of this, Stevie,” Bucky interrupts. _ “Please.” _

Bucky feels a little short of breath, his pulse thrumming. He used to be all kinds of smooth back when they were teenagers, but he’s not like that anymore, and he can already feel himself getting a little panicky at the idea of Clint finding out, of someone saying something before Bucky’s ready. Hell, Bucky may never _ be _ ready.

Steve seems to pick up on it. He gives Bucky an assessing glance, and then a pat on the shoulder.

“Okay, I promise. I won’t mention it again unless you do. Just — it’s just good to see you putting yourself out there, y’know?”

And that’s why Bucky can’t stay mad at Steve. The nosey little bastard is always just looking out for him, the way they’ve both looked out for each other since they were just a couple of punks making trouble in the neighborhood.

“Thanks, Stevie.”

He doesn’t let himself look again, just heads for the rifle bay with his ears still burning. He’s not putting himself out there, not really. Fantasizing about a hot guy from a distance is not like dating again, or even getting as far as asking someone out. But maybe it’s a first step.

* * *

He gets home that afternoon. He makes himself lunch, and flips channels on the television for a little while, but nothing seems to capture his interest.

_ You should ask him out, _ Steve had said.

How would that even work? Bucky imagines himself handing Clint a note like a middle schooler — _ “Do you like me? Y/N” _— and shakes his head.

He grabs his laptop and settles back down on the couch, typing “sign language” into the search bar.

Shit, he didn’t even know there were different kinds. Sounds like ASL is the most common, though, so he starts there. 

It’s kind of fascinating. It has its own grammatical structure. Some sites are geared towards parents of deaf babies, but Bucky finds some that are more what he’s looking for. YouTube is a goddamn treasure trove. This guy called Nyle DiMarco has videos on queer terminology _ and _ flirting in sign, and is pretty easy on the eyes to boot.

Bucky has always had a good visual memory. It’s probably harder to practice on your own, but he watches the videos a few times with the captions, and then again with them off so he can try to understand the signs on their own. When he starts trying on his own his movements are stiff and clumsy at first, but after a few minutes of feeling foolish about it he relocates to his tiny bathroom, balancing the laptop somewhat precariously on the sink as he signs into the mirror.

His occupational therapist would be proud, seeing how he’s able to work the metal fingers of his left hand almost as easily as his right. Luckily, most of the fancy fingerwork is done with the dominant hand, but he’s still pretty impressed with how easily he can translate the thought to action. When he was first fitted with the prosthesis it took a good ten seconds of intense concentration just to twitch his pinky, but now the fingers obey his wishes almost as well as with his other hand.

He finds out that facial expression is a large part of it, and the resting bitchface he’s cultivated to keep people at a distance since his medical discharge is a significant obstacle. He thinks about how mobile and expressive Clint’s face is when he signs, and decides to compensate by adding extra question mark wiggles.

By midnight his eyes are drooping. He’s gonna hate himself in the morning when he has to get up on only a couple of hours of sleep, but he’s got fingerspelling down, a fairly good vocabulary of words, and a few phrases. Plus, he’s got the rest of the week to practice.

* * *

By the next Thursday, Bucky is so nervous he can barely function. He woke up an hour early to practice a few phrases in the mirror. Some of them he has down:

[my] [name] [B] [U] [C] [K] [Y]

Others he has to think about more, the grammatical structure still awkward. _ I teach here _ becomes:

[I] [teacher] [over there], and he has to remember to nod his head during [teacher].

And then there’s the one that makes his hands shake.

[?] [date] [?]

He doesn’t go too early this time, worried with more time to think about it he’ll chicken out. He still gets in before the morning rush, sweeping past Darcy as she calls out a cheery good morning, still practicing the motions in his head.

Clint and his student seem to be chatting, and Bucky hangs back awkwardly. He hadn’t really thought this part through. Will he have enough time? Clint seems in no hurry to end things. Bucky watches his hands and is almost surprised to find himself catching a word here and there. Clint’s motions are so much faster, so much more fluid than most of the ASL teachers on YouTube, but then comes something Bucky understands immediately.

[takes] [bed] [all] [but] [I] [love] [him] [much]

_ I love him so much. _

Bucky veers off, heading for the rifle bay. Shit. He should have known. Clint is gorgeous, and seems funny, and kind, and...of course he has a boyfriend. What was Bucky _ thinking? _

* * *

For some reason he doesn’t want to examine too closely, Bucky keeps up his sign language self-study. He’s not spending multiple hours a day on it like he was that first week, but for at least an hour or two every day he checks out new signs, works on his vocabulary, and tries out some of the trickier stuff, like directionality and indexing.

He tells himself that it’s just good to have an interest, something that captures his attention and helps fill his empty days. And in the back of his mind, if he’s hoping that some day he may have a chance with Clint — that’s not something he’s willing to acknowledge.

Thursdays become a special type of torture. Bucky’s traitorous heart still leaps every time he sees Clint. He tries not to be too creepy, and he knows it’s rude to eavesdrop, but he can’t help being mesmerized by Clint when he talks to his student.

Every week he understands a little more of what they are saying, and every week he promises himself that he won’t eavesdrop again. But then there he is, lurking creepily in the background, watching Clint give his lesson, just to catch the rare glimpse of his conversation or the even rarer occasion when he shows off his archery skills, making Bucky’s breath hitch every time.

He learns the name sign for what must be Bucky’s boyfriend. Something with an L.

[L] [ate] [pizza] [last] [but] [cute] [mad] [not] 

[last night] [L] [sick] [much] [both-of-us] [no] [sleep] 

Clint is a devoted boyfriend, just as Bucky knew he would be. 

* * *

It’s one of Darcy’s mornings off, so Bucky is opening. He makes his way to the back door, still half-asleep, and almost stumbles over the figure crouched to the side of the doorway.

It takes him a moment before he recognizes the tear-stained face under the hoodie as that of Clint’s student.

[?] [you] [okay] [you] [?] he signs.

The kid’s face brightens a little when he sees Bucky signing.

[?] Clint [?] he signs hopefully.

Bucky thinks for a minute.

[afternoon] [Clint] [works], he signs, only realizing afterward that he has no logical reason to know Clint’s name sign.

Tears well up in the kid’s eyes and Bucky starts to panic.

[Clint] [I] [call] he manages.

“Shit,” he says aloud. He holds a hand out to the kid and the kid grasps it, letting Bucky pull him to his feet.

Bucky unlocks the door and ushers the kid inside. Darcy keeps a weekly schedule on the corkboard behind her desk, along with everyone’s contact information neatly written along the side.

Bucky hesitates for a moment. He doesn’t know if Clint can take a phone call. There’s some TTY service he’s heard about, but he never looked into the details. He sends a text instead, crossing his fingers that it’ll work for Clint. It’s not like anyone talks on the phone these days anyway, right?

While they’re waiting Bucky finds an ancient packet of cocoa in the break room and uses the instant hot water to make an only slightly-lumpy cup of hot chocolate.

He tries out a few of the phrases he knows — introducing himself, and saying that he teaches there. 

Either the kid is pretty accurate in his assessment of Bucky’s limited sign language skills or he’s not in the mood for conversation. Maybe both — he answers with a tight nod and goes back to staring gloomily into the cup of hot chocolate.

Bucky’s phone buzzes.

_I’m on my way_, Clint has texted back, and some of the tension in Bucky’s shoulders eases.

He’s just starting to wonder if he can leave the kid while he opens up the rest of the way when Clint busts through the door, bedhead sticking straight up, in a raggedy t-shirt and sweatpants, his feet apparently shoved bare into purple Converse by the glimpse of ankle that Bucky gets. He looks _adorable_, and Bucky has to look away, afraid everything he’s feeling might be showing on his face. Clint’s gaze barely brushes over Bucky, though, as he spots the kid, his expression crinkling with concern. He sits next to the kid and they start up a flurry of conversation.

Bucky leaves them to it. He opens up the rest of the way, unlocking the other doors, turning on all the lights, and starting the pot of coffee in the break room, and then he hesitates. It’s really none of his business, but to be honest he’s worried, and there’s no harm in checking up on the kid, is there?

To his relief the kid seems better. He’s not all smiles, but he doesn’t look devastated anymore. 

Then the kid gestures at Bucky, and Bucky averts his gaze and busies himself behind the counter. When he looks up again Clint and the kid are shaking hands solemnly. Clint hands the kid his phone, and the kid sends a message.

Clint gives the kid something between a pat on the back and a one-armed hug. He signs something else that Bucky can’t see, blocked by the kid’s body, and the kid nods again, shouldering his backpack and heading out the door.

And Clint — oh _shit_ — Clint turns toward Bucky, leaning against the counter. He’s even taller up close — so near that Bucky can see every freckle on his skin, can smell the sleep-warm scent of him.

Bucky freezes for a moment as Clint’s sky-blue eyes look him over. Out of sheer panic, he trots out his most-practiced phrases.

[my] [name] [B] [U] [C] [K] [Y]

[I] [teacher] [over there]. Goddammit, he forgot to nod during teacher.

[I] [know] Clint signs. [?] [you] [sign] [?]

[I] [learn] [learn] [learn] Bucky signs. _ I’m still learning. _

[?] [learn] [learn] [learn] [why] [?] Clint’s brows are knitted, the grooves in his forehead only deepening as Bucky feels his whole face flush red.

Shit, shit, _ shit._ He definitely can’t think fast enough to _ lie _ in sign.

[I] [want] [date] [you] [past] he finally signs, swallowing jaggedly. If he’s making Clint uncomfortable, he can change his work schedule. They only overlap one day as it is, Bucky can push back his Thursday morning class.

[?] past [?] Clint repeats, his eyebrows high on his furrowed forehead. [?] [now] [date] [me] [you] [want] [not] [?] 

Bucky squints, wondering if he got that wrong. It’s not at all what he was expecting, and Clint — Clint doesn’t look angry, or creeped out. He looks _ sad_. 

[I] Bucky starts, and then realizes he doesn’t know what he’s trying to say. All his vocabulary has flown out the window, his brain filled with static.

[because] [L] he finally blurts out. He’s not sure if he’s doing the name sign right, it’s not one he’s practiced, but Clint seems to understand it.

[?] [you] [no] [like] [L] [?] he signs.

Bucky gives up and shrugs. He can’t even begin to think how he could express, _ “I don’t even know your boyfriend but of course I don’t like him, because I wish it were me.” _

His confusion must show, because Clint signs something else.

[?] [you] and then a sign that Bucky doesn’t know.

Bucky tries to repeat the unfamiliar sign with a questioning face.

[A] [L] [L] [E] [R] [G] [I] [C] Clint fingerspells.

Now Bucky is totally lost. [What the hell?] he signs, with feeling.

“Fuck this,” Clint says. His voice is a little too loud, a little atonal, but clear as day. Bucky freezes, stunned.

[you] [wait] [I] [go] [car] Clint signs. “I’ll be right back,” he says aloud, and then charges out the door as Bucky is still reeling.

When he comes back in he’s fumbling with a small case in his hand. He pulls something out and Bucky realizes that it’s a bright purple hearing aid as Clint presses part of it into his ear and then loops the rest behind his ear. He does the same on the other side, and then turns to Bucky with an intent look on his face.

“You speak. Out loud, I mean.” Bucky blurts out, and then immediately wishes he could melt into the floor.

“Yeah,” Clint says, with a heavy intonation of ‘duh’ in his voice. “How d’you think I teach my other classes?”

“I — I dunno.” An IED couldn’t kill him but Bucky might very well just die right here of embarrassment. “I never heard you — I — I can’t believe I never asked anyone.”

Clint seems to brush the whole issue aside with a sweep of his hand. “So what’s your problem with Lucky,” he asks, a little belligerently.

“Your boyfriend’s name is _ Lucky?_” And, shit, now Bucky’s just being insulting. But, seriously. Clint deserves better than someone willing to put up with a name better suited to a fucking _ leprechaun_.

“You — what? — my —” Now Clint seems equally confused. And then he stops sputtering, as a look of realization overtakes his face. “Holy _ shit_,” he breathes. The edge of his mouth quirks up in a smile.

He pulls out his phone, pressing the button to display the lock screen. The photo is kind of adorable, a one-eyed dog caught in the act of stealing a slice of pizza, half of it trailing out of his mouth.

“That’s Lucky,” Clint says. “My dog,” he adds unnecessarily, although given what Bucky’s demonstrated of his intellectual functioning it’s probably not unreasonable for Clint to think he needs the clarification.

“But you said —” Bucky stops himself too late. Clint’s eyes narrow.

“You’ve been eavesdropping,” Clint realizes aloud, as Bucky replays in his mind everything Clint had _ actually _ said about Lucky. That he took the last slice of pizza. That he was sick and kept them both up all night. That he hogs the bed, but Clint still loves him so much. _ Goddamn_, but Bucky is the biggest moron ever to walk this earth.

“I’m sorry,” Bucky says. “It’s creepy, I know. The first time, I was just waiting to go up to you so I could ask you out. And then after that — I don’t know, I don’t have an excuse.” He stares at the counter, afraid to see what Clint thinks of him written all over the man’s expressive face. “I just liked watching you,” he finishes weakly.

Oh god, could he make himself sound even _ more _ like a maniac?

“Hey.” Clint’s voice is soft, and it draws Bucky’s eyes up to meet his almost against his will. Clint is still, puzzlingly, smiling that crooked smile. “I stay late on Thursdays after my lesson with Dion to watch you teach your class. Have for months now.”

It takes Bucky a long moment to process that. “Really?”

“Really.” There’s color on the rise of Clint’s cheekbones now too, just above his stubbled cheeks. “I already had your number programmed in my phone because I stole it off the schedule hoping I’d think of a reason to text you. Apparently I talk about you so much that Dion only agreed to call his foster family and tell them why he freaked out on the condition that I finally get up the courage to speak to you.”

“So.” Bucky flounders for a moment, relief making him almost light-headed. “It’s not creepy stalking if we were _ both _ doing it?”

Clint’s crooked smile widens to a grin. “I can get on board with that,” he says. “And — you learned sign for me. That’s pretty damned amazing. I think it’s worth a second chance, don’t you?”

Bucky straightens up. Not only has a crushing weight been removed from his shoulders, but he feels like he could damn near fly.

[my] [name] [B] [U] [C] [K] [Y]

[I] [teacher] [over there], he signs. He even remembers to nod.

The smile he gets in response is like a sunrise, spreading slow and soft and fond. Bucky feels like he could happily spend the rest of his life cataloguing Clint’s smiles.

“I’m Clint,” Clint says, signing along as he speaks, the corners of his lips still tilted up in an irrepressible smile. “I teach here too. I have a borderline-codependent relationship with my dog Lucky. You want in on that?”

“Yeah,” Bucky says, trying to sign as he speaks as well, despite the spreading joy that is making his fingertips tingle. “I think I do.”


End file.
